Glue
by Nick-ed
Summary: Jim Ignatowski remembers, regrets, and may or may not be able to move on. Unless his friends can help him. M for drugs, talk of suicide, language, and Louie.


"Hey, Ignatowski!"

He turned at the sound of his name. At least, he was pretty sure it was his name. It sure sounded familiar. He looked around himself to see if there was a possibility that Louie's stubby finger wasn't pointed at someone standing directly behind him. Realising he was alone, he gestured to himself cautiously.

"You talking to me, boss?"

"Christ, Iggy- Is there anyone else here with your name?" Louie waddled over to him, his arms clenched viciously at his sides. Jim looked down at the diminutive man from atop his wiry, unbalanced figure. He paused a moment in thought.

"Me, boss."

"You what?" Louie snapped impatiently.

"I have my name, too," Jim said simply. The thick blue vein that ran across De Palma's rounded forehead throbbed painfully. Louie crammed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Iggy, I need the key back for cab #276. That's all. Just give it to me and let me get back to my sanity, okay?" He thrust out his hand.

"O-oh," the denim-clad, wild-haired man fumbled with his pockets, his large hands patting and probing clumsily until he discovered the small, tagged key and dropped it into the head dispatcher's grubby digits.

"Thank you," Louie smiled, his voice dripping with venomous sarcasm. He stalked away, leaving Jim swaying uneasily by the staircase.

"You're welcome," the cabbie called after him. He sat down at the foot of the stairs and started fiddling with his fingers absentmindedly. And he sat there, watching the taxis come and go. Conversations and quiet mutterings coursed and pulsated throughout the garage, cut short occasionally by Louie's shrill exclamations, complaints, and insults. All this, Jim Ignatowski ignored. Well, not ignored. Just none of it seemed relevant or important, and therefore none of it required his attention. His mind wandered elsewhere, tripping through memories, daydreams, hopes, worries. So when Alex prodded his shoulder, he didn't realise right away that the existing world had once again become relevant.

"Huh?"

"Jim, do you want to come with us?" Alex repeated for the fourth time, impatience just starting to edge its way into his voice. But Alex was too nice a guy, too understanding and accustomed to Jim's ways and habits to let it get to him. He smiled when the reverend turned to him, his brow furrowed slightly.

"Sure, where are we going?"

"Mario's."

Iggy shook his head. "I don't have any money, Alex." Rieger patted the sitting man's shoulder comfortingly.

"Don't worry 'bout it- the gang'll pitch in, 'kay?"

Jim's eyes and mind wandered.

"Jim?"

"Huh?"

"Mario's?

"Sure, why not," he stood and stretched his legs before following Alex and the rest of the cabbies next-door to the bar.

* * *

"When I wass at Harvard," he said, his speech slurred slightly more than usual by the intake of alcohol, "I had this teacher. He taught liter-rature. He read po-etry in class sometimes. Now being the... _serious_ young student I was at the time, I never saw the... ap-peal or practicality of poetry. But there was _one _poem that he read to the class that... when I read it again years later... _it_..." His voice trailed off into the bubbling chatter. He wasn't even sure if anyone was listening to him, and frankly, he didn't really care. He took another gulp of beer, licking his lips before he stood, his hunched shoulders straightening themselves grandly, to recite.

_"At twenty I tried to die. And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, and they stuck me together with glue." _

The table was silent and all eyes were on his postured frame, looking at him questioningly; confused; concerned. He sat back down with an content sigh and sense of accomplishment.

"I don't remember who wrote that," Jim said quietly as conversations resumed. He clenched his eyelids together, sliding forward against the edge of the table. Elaine, who had the interesting predicament of being sat right beside the reverend, looked at him with concern.

"That was lovely, Jim," she said warmly.

"Thank you."

"Say, Jim... if you don't mind me asking..."

"Hmmm?"

"What is it about that particular poem that you like?"

Iggy turned towards her, his mouth hung slightly askew as it often did. "Well," he said, clearing his throat and and leaning in towards her, "It's easy for me to relate," he said in a near-whisper.

Elaine's brow creased and the corners of her mouth tightened. "What so you mean?"

"Well..." he coughed, edging in even closer so that they were nearly toughing foreheads. His eyes were deep, dark, and empty and he reeked of sweat, beer, and pot, "I know what it feels like to be glued."

"...What?" She almost laughed but something about Jim's demeanor silenced her. He was deadly serious and, the frightening thing was, he looked like he was in pain. She opened her mouth to speak, her mind fumbling for words.

But Jim had gotten up and retreated to the men's room, knocking his chair to the ground in the rush, to clear out whatever was coming back up out of his stomach.

* * *

He stared into bloodshot eyes. A thought flitted across his mind briefly and fell into the dark pool along with the rest. He closed his eyes and leaned forward against the sink, propping his arms against its edges as the next wave of nausea overcame him.

He rinsed the bile and mess down the drain. The eyes caught his attention again and he gaped at his reflection in the mirror. Minutes passed before he noticed and he hastily wiped the tears away with his frayed sleeve cuff. Jim sighed deeply.

"...Fuck," he muttered.

He left Mario's without saying goodbye to his table and went home to his flat, oblivious to the signs marking its condemned state. He collapsed onto his couch, sending a billow of dust funneling around him. He stared at the crack in the ceiling until the alarm went off and he had to go to work.

* * *

"A poem?" Alex said incredulously.

"I know it sounds silly, but I'm worried about him." Elaine crossed her arms firmly across her chest.

"Because of a poem?" Tony laughed. Elaine glared the boxer into a meek silence.

"You didn't see his face," she said quietly.

"That because we too busy watching Mr. Banta, how you say... get ass kicked," Latka's strongly accented voice chirped in cheerfully. Tony moaned, recalling the previous night's antics and the fact that Latka, of all people, had drank him under the table.

"Besides, he's looked pretty bad lately. He's barely said a word in days. Last night was the most he's said in weeks, and that's only because he was wasted," Elaine wrung her hands.

"Yeah...on booze we bought him," Bobby commented resentfully as he passed by the table on his way over to the vending machine. Elaine shot him a poisonous look.

"Well, what do you want to do?" Alex asked bluntly.

"I just want to make sure he's okay, that's all. Maybe if someone could ask him, or try to talk to him."

"What the hell is this, the friggin' psycho ward? We all playin' shrink, here?" Louie cackled from his cage, "Forget Ignatowski- he's a hopeless case. Ya want somebody ta worry 'bout, worry 'bout _me_- _I_ gotta put up with 'im!"

"Sorry 'bout that, boss."

All eyes turned to Iggy as he stumbled through the garage entrance. Louie gawked at the lanky, wild-haired man.

"You should be," he said, finally, turning back to his paperwork. Jim's head bobbed with half-hearted agreement before he went to take his place at the foot of the stairs to the loft. Elaine watched him, her face frozen in a pained expression.

"Louie!" She growled in the direction of the cage. The balding man merely shrugged off her anger and his mouth twisted into a devious grin. He flipped on the speaker system and brought leaned into the mic.

"Yo, Iggy! Elaine wants ta talk to you!" He said a bit more loudly and insensitively than he should have. The woman gasped. The reverend's head popped up and he looked over to her, sitting nervously at the table with Alex and Tony.

"You wanna talk to me?" He pointed to his chest as Elaine fumbled for words. She clenched her jaw with determination.

"Yes, Jim. Could you come over here, please?"

He did. He sat down on her left side. Alex and Tony glanced at each other nervously, not really wanting to be part of whatever was about to ensue.

"Well, I gotta go, uh, vacuum some floorboards," Alex coughed as he got up.

"Oh, uh, yeah! Me too," Tony followed suit. Elaine glared after them harshly.

"Uhh-h..." Jim open and closed his mouth and pinched his brows together in a mockery of thought.

"Oh, Jim," Elaine turned her attention back to him, smiling apologetically.

"You wanted to talk to me?"

"Yes."

There was a pause as the blond woman collected her thoughts. She sighed.

"Are you alright, Jim?" She said, finally her eyes not leaving his unkempt face. He blinked.

"Am I...?"

"Are you doing okay?"

He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "Do I not look okay?"

"Truthfully, Iggy... no. Not really."

She wasn't lying. Ignatowski never really looked "okay", but he had been looking even worse than usual within the few weeks. He smelled like he hadn't showered or shaved in days or changed his clothes in days. His eyes were dark and red and absent and lacking that brilliant, energetic gleam. He appeared to have had lost weight, which considering his already lean figure, gave him a gaunt, almost skeletal look.

"Ah," He nodded and lowered his eyes to the table, "I guess I must look pretty bad," he mumbled.

"Jim, is there something going on? Can you tell me?"

"Hmm. It's the glue."

Elaine thought she misunderstood and leaned in closer, "I'm sorry?"

"Why? You haven't done anything."

She just barely swallowed an exasperated sigh.

"Glue?"

"Yeah," Iggy nodded.

"Like in the poem you recited last night?"

"Yeah."

Elaine cleared her throat. "Jim, what is this _glue_?"

"Everything," he said plainly, making a very small gesture with his hands. Her forehead knit together in confusion.

"I'm sorry?"

"You didn't do any-"

"Jim!" She cut him off, taking his large, flat hands in her own small ones. She felt a trembling fear creep up her spine. "Jim... tell me what's wrong," her voice was urgent.

The cabbie stared at her blankly for a long moment. His mind felt like it was filled with air, and the air was separating from itself and trickling out from his eyes.

"Jim?"

"Huh?"

"W-why are you-" Elaine stuttered. She didn't know how to handle this sort of situation, so she did the only humane thing she could think of. She pulled a clean white handkerchief from her purse and proceeded to wipe the tears from Jim Ignatowski's face. He didn't move as she did this. She was about to pull her hand back when he finally moved, swiftly wrapping his hand around her wrist and keeping the damp cloth from leaving his face.

Alex found himself edging cautiously back towards the table, concerned and enthralled with the bizarre scene before him. He had seen Jim cry before- when he had burned down Louie's apartment, when he had lost his "adopted son", on the limo-ride back from his father's house. But this was different. The reverend was perfectly silent, almost as if he was absent from himself. Jim let go of Elaine's hand.

"When I was a student," Jim said very, very slowly, "I broke myself. And I never... really... put myself back together again."

Louie had come out from his cage and was standing discreetly behind them, just within ear's reach. Alex reclaimed his seat at the card-table. Elaine was speechless.

Alex cleared his throat. "Jim...?" He tried to move himself into the reverend's field of vision, as if that would somehow help him better communicate with the dazed man, "What happened, Jim?"

Iggy's eyes drifted over the cabbie's face.

"I lost control of my mind," he said, "I-I lost control. And when they brought me back, I was..."

There was a tense silence.

"When I was twenty, in my first year of college, I overdosed on cocaine," Reverend Jim Ignatowski said in the simplest manner, "And it damaged me beyond repair. I kept taking drugs and... well, everything else you did in the sixties. But that..." He smiled weakly, "That was... that was _it_. The turning point. The point where everything became just a little more..."

The garage seemed to go completely silent as the chair scraped against the concrete floor and Iggy stood once again to recite:

_"At twenty I tried to die. And get back, back, back to you. I thought even the bones would do. But they pulled me out of the sack, and they stuck me together with glue," _he looked around at the familiar faces of his coworkers and friends and he added, "I almost overdosed again... just a few weeks ago." He paused, staring off at some invisible object on the floor.

In the background, Louie averted his eyes and shifted uncomfortably.

"I just... wish, sometimes... that I wasn't like this. That's all," he shrugged, " I'm not usually aware of the things I do and say. I'm even less aware of the things happening around me- the people around me. And the more I think about it...the more I-" His voice trailed off and he lowered his arms weakly to his sides.

Elaine leapt from her chair, wrapped her arms around the reverend's chest, burying her face in his denim jacket.

"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, Jim," her voice trembled. Jim patted her back gently.

"You didn't do anything."

Alex joined into the hug. As did Tony and Bobby. Louie watched the scene before him, his arms crossed firmly across his wide chest. He frowned.

"Hey, hey! This ain't no goddamn soap opera! Get back to work, you miscreants!" He growled loudly, shattering the moment. The few employees who had gathered around the table in curiosity shuffled away and resumed work. Wheeler and Banta broke off from the hug, uncomfortable and somewhat embarrassed. They slunk away back to their cabs and out of sight. Rieger and Nardo remained, standing by the reverend. Elaine held his hands in hers, but was silent. Alex shot a dirty look at Louie who merely shrugged and jutted his thumb over to the waiting cabs.

"Fuck you, De Palma," Alex said through grit teeth, "Don't you have any-?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm a heartless, grotesque monster who doesn't deserve to live- I know, I know. Now get your ass back to work or you're fired, Rieger."

Alex clenched his jaw. "Iggy," he said quietly, turning back towards the tall man. Jim looked at him. "We're here for you, okay? We'll help you through this."

"Okay, Alex," Jim nodded, his vacant, cheerful demeanor returning. Rieger tapped Elaine's shoulder and beckoned her to follow him. She hesitated for a moment, giving Iggy's hands one last squeeze before trailing after her coworker, leaving the reverend standing alone at the table.

"Hey, Iggy," De Palma said quietly.

"Yeah, boss?"

"C'mere," he gestured to the taller man, who obeyed and followed his diminutive employer to the secluded area by the main entrance. Louie stopped, turned, and rubbed the bridge of his nose in agitation.

"What the fuck are you thinking, Ignatowski?" He muttered.

"Huh?" Jim leaned down slightly.

"You! You're a fucking idiot, do you know that? A fucking moron!" Louie hissed.

The cabbie was silent.

"Iggy..." Louie's voice didn't soften, "Did you do it on purpose?"

"D-do what, boss?"

"You know 'zactly what!" Louie nearly yelled before he lowered his voice to a near-whisper, "Did you overdose... on purpose?"

Jim's mouth opened and closed but no words came out.

"Did you or did you not try to kill yourself a few weeks ago-" De Palma froze, his eyes widened, "Those days you missed work... you said you went to visit your brother... it was then, wasn't it?"

"... Yeah."

"Jesus H. Christ..." He ran his sweaty palm over his head in exasperation, "Jesus, Jim, you can't just- _was it on purpose_?"

Jim cleared his throat and sat down on an overturned tin bucket beside the wall. "I don't know."

"What? You don't know if you were trying to off yourself?" The small man almost laughed, "Don't bullshit me." He paused. "Okay, you know what- that's _your_ business. But, Iggy..." He took a few steps closer to the sitting man, "Are you going to be alright _now_? Because if you're still... _in that place_, you need to figure that shit out, okay? I ain't gonna have my cabbies offin' themselves on my watch." Louie sighed and rubbed his scalp.

"It's not going to happen again, boss," Iggy said softly. The shorter man glanced up at him, trying to read his expression.

"Okay. Good. Great!" Louie slapped his arms to his sides and released the breath he didn't realise he had been holding.

"Is that all, Lou?"

"Yes. No, wait!- No," De Palma fumbled with his words, grabbing Jim's wrist to keep him from leaving. "Look," he said slowly, "You're a good guy, Iggy. You're a nut, but you're a good guy. And you're a good driver. I know it must be tough..." He paused, looking over the cabbie, "Bein' in your kinda condition- in your situation. But ya gotta deal with it, okay? God knows, I know how ya feel," he waved his hands over his stunted body, "But you got friends here- we-they'll take care of you."

Jim looked at him, a weak smile twisting the side of his mouth, and nodded gently.

"Thanks, boss!" He bent down in a sweeping movement and wrapped his arms around the flailing, flustered dispatcher.

"Get offa me, ya big lummox!" Louie swatted him away, "And get back ta work! Lazy bastard!"

"Uhh..." Ignatowski paused, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Oh, what is it now?"

"Today's my day off."

Louie turned to him and stared at him in awe before slowly walking away and locking himself in his cage.

* * *

"Here," Jim passed the joint to Alex, who received it gratefully. Tony shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"So... how you feelin', Iggy?" The boxer said hesitantly.

"Hmm? Oh, fine- fine," the reverend leaned back in his chair.

"O-oh. That's good."

Jim raised his eyebrows and gave a long sigh. "Look... I'm really sorry about the other day."

Alex coughed violently.

"S-*koff*-sorry? What for?"

"Just for... you know. Making a scene. I was in a bad place- but I'm better now. So I don't want you guys worrying about me, okay?"

Alex grinned. "You weren't making a scene, Iggy, but I'm glad you're feeling better."

"H-hey. May I?" Jim waved a hand at the half-smoked joint.

"Oh, sorry," Rieger returned it apologetically.

"Hey, what was that dirtbag De Palma talking to you about after all that, anyway?" Tony asked. Jim waved a disapproving finger.

"The boss isn't as bad as you guys think, y'know," Iggy said simply.

"Oh really?"

Alex started laughing and didn't stop.

That night Jim opened the lockless door to his condemned flat. He switched on the battery-powered light, ate a can of Spaghetti O's, and fell onto his couch with a thud. He stared up at the crack in the ceiling before closing his eyes and drifting off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. The next day he would go into work and everything would be as it always had been. Louie would bark orders, Elaine would scold him. Tony would chatter about his next fight. Alex would be that one sane voice of reason. Bobby would be shallow as ever. Reverend Jim Ignatowski would be Reverend Jim Ignatowski.

And everyone else would be his glue.

_-Fin_

* * *

I will never forgive myself for writing this. This is one of those stories where I just started, with no preconceived thought or notion as to what the story would be or what would happen or what characters besides Jim would be involved. So that... somehow turned into this mess. I entertained the idea that Jim would recite some poetry, because he's that type of guy. And from there... well, you know what happened, you tell me. I'm still trying to figure it out.

Oh well. I hope it was at least slightly entertaining in its over-the-top melodramatic, completely unrealistic way.


End file.
